


we fall between

by stringendos



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Beaches, Everyone Thinks They're Together, Getting Back Together, Language, M/M, New Years, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Unreliable Narrator, exes who act like theyre married, ref up to ch380, some alcohol drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29272848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stringendos/pseuds/stringendos
Summary: He remembers Suna asking, three months back into his life, “Are you seeing anyone now?”And Osamu had replied, tongue a little loose from the hour, “Nope,” with a small shake of his head and far too much honesty. “There’s only ever been you.”or: there comes a point when being best friends with your ex doesn't work anymore. it happens, osamu learns, after you try to kiss him.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 22
Kudos: 105
Collections: SunaOsa Valentine's Exchange





	we fall between

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ask_the_psychis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ask_the_psychis/gifts).



> > written for [@illuminati_png](https://twitter.com/illuminati_png) for the sunaosa valentines exchange
>> 
>> hi nat!! i hope you enjoy this friends to exes (who act like theyre married) to lovers snos! (i just realised that i... accidentally wrote a christmas/new years themed fic for a _valentines_ exchange...... but despite that hiccup on my part (sorry!), i rly do hope you like it!)
>> 
>> thank you to the mods for organising this event!
> 
> \- **warnings:** language, some alcohol drinking, and one drunk char (in a brief voicemail)  
> \- **spoilers:** for ch377 (atsumu's post timeskip status) and ch380 (re suna's whereabouts post high school)  
> 

“Your birthday’s comin’ up,” Osamu starts off, wandering back into Suna’s bedroom in only his sweatpants, the soles of his feet a quiet patter against the floor. “What d’you want?”

In juggling tasks, efficiency whittles down to negative levels in a string of half-dones. Toothbrush nestled in his right cheek; old shirt, with its stretched out collar and faded print, flung off into Suna’s face. And one handed, Osamu goes through his checklist, collecting things along the way.

Into his bag goes his charger, his hastily binded assignment, the one and only pen he uses. Notebook, a little dog-eared from use, handouts for his first class of the day. And patting the front pocket, he checks that his USB hasn't sprouted legs in a threat to launch him head first into an ocean of panic.

Behind him, Osamu hears the shift of covers, and without checking, knows that Suna’s rolling back onto his stomach, knotting his limbs into the blanket.

Muffled by the press of a face to the pillow, Suna groans. “Another twenty hours of sleep.”

“For your _birthday._ ”

“It’s like a month away,” Suna whines, his nose no doubt wrinkling. “Lemme sleep.”

“Suna.” And then, when Suna makes no effort to rise, "We’re gonna be late.”

As if yelling out in agreement, another alarm goes off on Suna’s phone, the fifth of the morning. It forces him to sit up and rifle around, searching for it through the abyss of a duvet. With it retrieved and safely in his grasp, Suna swipes it silent; and then, like all mornings prior, falls back into the mattress, his back landing with a soft thud, and thumbs through his notifications.

On the bedside table, Osamu’s own phone chimes from their LINE group chat, and as if reading out the morning news, Suna gives Osamu running updates as he heads back into the bathroom.

It goes as follows: Ginjima complaining about the morning rush hour. Kosaku reminding them to send him money for their train tickets. A badly cropped photo off of the internet capturing the hotel room that Atsumu has booked for when he arrives in Ota.

Suna snorts.

Through the open door, Osamu calls out in question, words gargled with toothpaste. The barrage of notifications starts, all interrupting each other in their haste to have the last say.

“Nothing important,” is Suna’s reply. “Atsumu’s just saying he’s gonna get our tickets cancelled if we don’t wear his jersey to the game.” Then, after a few beats, reports, “Gin said he’s a Bokuto Beam fan.”

Out loud, Suna recites his own message in time with the tap of his thumbs. (It’s something along the lines of _weren’t the personalised Atsumu uchiwas they made last time good enough,_ but _fine, go ahead_ , and how he’ll _be there in VC Kanagawa colours anyway._ )

By the time Osamu re-emerges; the smell of mint, lingering in his mouth, of face wash, clinging to his skin, a new brand bought under recommendations from Suna’s sister; he finds Suna still on the bed, caught in the same position he left him. 

“C’mon.” He reaches out, snaking a hand around an ankle, ready to pull on it. “Get up.”

After Suna dodges, taking care to kick him on his journey, Osamu gives one final jab to Suna’s calf (cold, like always, as if he could never evade it), and returns back to the wardrobe.

It’s Suna’s really, but at this point, it seems shared with the sheer mass of Osamu’s things accumulated over the past year and still climbing. Some, stolen - when Suna pulls on scarfs under no pretense of returning them. Others - after a two in the morning laundry run, and Osamu folds his sweaters into the space Suna grants him.

(Then, each night, folds himself into the space beside him, their limbs tangling. Fingers curl, over the bumps of spines; noses settle, in the valley of collarbones; breaths even out into a steady rise and fall.

And together they lie, as if their bodies were crafted alongside each other, to fit.)

He rummages around and comes out with a pair of slacks in one hand, and with the other, hangs a white shirt up on the top of the door a hanger hook. Later today will be his final presentation for the semester, with a relentless grilling of questions and answers, and the painful dresscode of _formal workplace attire_ ; so the sweatpants go, kicked off somewhere into the room; and Osamu pulls on a pair of slacks with a final fasten of a button.

From the bed as his vantage point, Suna lazes, and with Osamu’s movements around the room, his eyes follow, never straying.

"What?"

It’s not strange, not really; for Suna’s habits are long lasting, and he has never shaken off this act of people watching. He learns first, with eyes; then learns next, with the bend of a body. Collects information on the court, files it away, and relays it back, in tactics, heavy-handed. And while it’s unnerving to many, for they’d heard it countless times - the way Inarizaki’s Volleyball Team had built a kingdom of giants; those who move in thunderstorms, others in unnerving silence - Osamu has long since known this.

(And in their years apart, Osamu had _still_ known; from articles and tweets and a whirlwind of rumours exchanged through mouths, that EJP Raijin’s Jersey #7 can pick apart a defence in his mind alone.)

Midway through shrugging the shirt on, Osamu casts his gaze back to the mirror, and stops when through it, their eyes meet.

 _He could pull apart entire kingdoms,_ Osamu thinks, _under the sheer weight of his gaze alone._

(And with a start, Osamu realises that he would gladly yield, if at the hands of his.)

When Suna holds his silence, lost in a thought that Osamu cannot latch onto, Osamu decides to shift gears, schooling his face into one that’s on the brink of teasing. "See somethin’ you like?"

It’s then that something flits across Suna’s face, as if forcefully pulling himself out of a daze.

He shuffles up to brace on elbows, leans back, and gives Osamu a once over, eyes slow in their path, careful to linger. When he returns his gaze, Suna blinks, once, then twice, and smirks up at him from beneath the splay of eyelashes. “You could say that.”

Abandoned on the bed, Suna’s phone rings out in a final alarm _._ And with practiced ease, Suna’s snakes an arm out, and thumbs it off without looking.

* * *

Between them, routines are fallen into easily.

Suna is first to wake, but rises later; teeters on a tightrope of _nearly late_ and _absolutely no point in going in_ , paying no mind to which side he lands. Osamu rouses slowly, a little grouchy; his throat rough from sleep.

Sometimes, Osamu’s first sight is of Suna sitting upright, his back against the headboard, flicking through his phone in one hand, his other, tangled in Osamu’s hair.

Other times, his eyes slide open to Suna staring at him with this inexplicable look on his face, fingers ghosting on his cheek.

(Before, Suna startled, as if caught in an act; but Osamu had latched onto his forearm before he had the chance to snatch it away and rebuild his guard.

These days, he holds still for a few moments as Osamu blinks the last of sleep from his eyes, before telling Osamu of his earth rumbling snores, strong enough to pull neighbours from their slumber.)

With winter they stay, just a little while longer; for one year on, their mouths no longer fill with excuses that sit rough against molars, of _broken heating_ and _lumpy futons_. And instead, they allow their bodies to curve towards each other, just as a plant bends towards the sun.

When they eventually detach themselves from the warmth of the covers, they get ready for the day in a scramble of IDs and house keys and sweaters with the sleeves tucked inside out. Suna slathers on his sunscreen (no matter the weather) and with no mirror to guide him, he pays no mind to where it lands. On go coats and scarves and bedhead hiding hats, and with feet shoved into shoes, they rush out of the door and bound upon the usual path towards the train station.

It’s a thirty minute train ride between Suna’s apartment and campus, transfers and all, and when they both shuffle across the platform to cram into another carriage, they try to take up as little space as two one-hundred-and-eighty-something centimetres tall former volleyball players possibly can.

Against the tick of the train tracks, the little interlude in between station stops, they shuffle around until they’re crowding each other. Suna grips a fistful of Osamu’s jacket when he’s elbowed away from the overhanging handles, and to steady him, Osamu braces a hand on Suna’s lower back, allowing him to rest his weight on his own. They smile politely at the grandmother who gets on two stops after them, seats given when theirs to offer, and Osamu always asks, with genuine interest, about her grandson whose sights are set on Koushien, if her plants are faring well.

“Are you coming over today?” Suna asks, once they pass the turnstiles, swiping his Suica card against the reader.

Trailing behind, Osamu shakes head in reply, and he waits until he’s back within earshot. “Can’t. After the presentation, my groupmates wanna go for dinner after to celebrate or somethin’.”

"And here I was going to offer to treat you to a meal today."

In all honesty, Osamu only considers two of his groupmates as actual friends. It’s far more tempting to curl up on the couch with Suna, eating cheap takeout and falling asleep to the latest episode of that FujiTV drama, recommended by Matsuda on her insistence that it’s _actually good this time, I promise_.

He nearly says _‘don’t wait up’_ before catching himself and reeling it back. After all, despite the time spent together, and how more nights are spent in a shared bed than not, it’s not enough to worry that a night would be spent sleepless with the other beyond the doorway, instead of dozing off beside them.

Weaving through the crowds, they duck out from the station’s refuge and their miracle heating, and fall into a rhythm Osamu has long since gotten used to; steps heavy, to plant against the ice. When Suna slips, hands link together until footing is regained, and Osamu doesn’t realise that they haven’t let go until they reach campus.

“Don’t forget to eat when you get home, okay?” Osamu reminds, after checking the time.

“Yeah, yeah-”

 _“Real food_ , okay?”

At this, Suna swats at him, as if he’s a fly orbiting him, a pest that will not give in. “Konbini food is real food,” he argues.

Osamu sighs, but even now, he can hear the fondness that weaves its way into his side. “I put the leftover nikujaga from last night in the fridge. Jus’ heat it up and make some rice.”

Rocking forward onto his toes, Suna reaches over to pinch Osamu’s cheek. “You look after me so well, Osamu-kun,” he coos.

Osamu pulls a face, slapping away the offending fingers, and notices then, the spot of missed sunscreen on his jaw.

Just before Suna spins on his heel, ready to head to class, Osamu halts him in his tracks as he reaches out, his hands leading, words trailing. 

(For between them; actions come first, words after, in bridging valleys.)

“Wait, you’ve got a little-”

Thumb leading to the underside of his chin, fingers pressed against the side of his neck. He wipes at the sunscreen smeared on his jaw, and feels the balmy texture of his skin below. In return, Suna’s own come up to fiddle with Osamu’s tie, leaning into his touch.

“And you call me the messy one.”

(And with this, Osamu recalls.

Lunches spent in the shade of trees. The sound of cicadas thrumming in their ears. Walks home from class, feet in step. Dinners under a kotatsu, their knees knocking.

Suna reaching over, and plucking a rice grain off of the corner of his mouth.)

Suna waits, patient, and stares as if searching for something on Osamu’s face. It makes the hair on the back of his neck raise.

“What?” Osamu asks.

In the cold, Suna’s ears flush a soft pink. Distantly, Osamu notes, to put earmuffs on his gift list, as he tucks away a flyaway strand of Suna’s hair behind his ear.

"The salaryman look kinda suits you," Suna replies eventually. "When you set up your onigiri place, you should still wear a suit and tie. Roll up your sleeves, wear a little apron; it’ll give you this sort of _Handsome Boyfriend Making You a Meal_ look."

“Is this a wish of yours or somethin’?”

Scrunching up his nose a little, Suna tells him, “Nope,” then, with a smug look on his face, “I already get to see it every day. I’m doing you a favour and giving you ideas to help you get loyal customers.”

* * *

Over dinner, in a small izakaya, tucked away in a little corner a ten minute walk from campus, Osamu celebrates the coming of _final deadlines done_. His groupmates order another round of beer for the table, though Osamu’s still nursing his first, the condensation sweating a ring into the countertop. Absentmindedly, he runs a finger through it, and feels the rivulets bleed from the tip of his nail.

A few seats over, Takagi declares that tonight is a night to eat his weight in karaage and forget about that bitter taste that comes with end of year misfortunes, of _bad essay marks_ , and _dying laptop batteries_ , and the absolute tragedy of _a Christmas season spent dateless_. He’s a spectacle to watch, draws the attention of the room effortlessly, with wide comical gestures erupting booming laughter, and Osamu itches to take a few embarrassing photos that’ll strengthen with age.

Face up on the table, his phone lights up with dropdown LINE previews over the lockscreen wallpaper. It’s one of him and Suna, pulling stupid faces as they squat down in front of the Gundam statue in Odaiba. With the bad camera angle, it can barely be seen, the frame just about catching Unicorn Gundam’s kneecaps as their backdrop.

`**suna:** pretty sure they talked about the assignment today in class but i missed it`

`**suna:** bc i zoned out`

`**suna:** help`

`**suna** sent a sticker```

Osamu grins. It’s probably that sticker of Moon with his soul escaping from his mouth, reserved solely for the likes of dreams had with eyes wide open, the words lining the lecture slides swimming into a pool of ink.

Beside him, Matsuda draws away from her conversation to peek over his shoulder. "Miya-chan,” she calls, in a sing-song voice, knocking him out of his daze. “Who's that?"

`**suna:** oh well thats next years mes problem`

“Who’s who?”

With her chin, she gestures over at his phone, the tips of her chopsticks clattering against her bowl.

“Ah, it’s just my friend sayin-”

“It’s his _boyfriend_ ,” Takagi pipes up, over the table and flinching heads, as if he can’t help himself. He shoves another piece of meat in his mouth, and without giving himself a chance to swallow, just lets it bulge in one of his cheeks. “The guy in his lock screen right? Where they’re at an ice rink?”

Across from Takagi, Fujimoto pulls a face, though he stays blissfully unaware.

“No,” Matsuda denies. “They’re in front of this massive white block of-” she tilts her head, squinting, then gestures for Osamu to let her see again when the screen fades back to black. As if studying it, the background or Suna’s face, Osamu’s not sure, Matsuda takes a few moments, before asking, “Is that-”

“Gundam, yeah-”

“Not what I was gonna ask but...” Her face shifts into something scheming. “It’s a cute photo of… you and your… friend.”

Osamu’s not quite sure if he wants to know what she was going to ask.

But apparently deciding for him, as if she can somehow hear all of his inner thoughts and the way they unknowingly take root, she elaborates, “He’s that guy in the purikura in your wallet, isn’t he?”

Oddly enough, Osamu feels caught red handed. But there’s nothing incriminating about having a photo of a friend tucked in his wallet, especially not when it’s just Suna. It’s a nice photo of them back in Inarizaki, and one that has remained from time, and kept out of habit, more than anything else.

But Osamu doesn’t bother justifying it (for there’s nothing _to_ justify, despite the nagging in the back of his mind telling him otherwise) and instead, addresses, “It’s rude to go through other people’s things. Weren’t you the one who always told _me_ that?”

Laughing, Matsuda sets her chopsticks down, and swivels around to face him, forearm propped up on the back of her chair.

She's from Kyoto, had introduced herself some time during their first week, and with a grin, told him that his sweater was inside out. Over a year and many painful deadlines later, she’s easily one of Osamu’s closest friends in the department. Suna would probably like her too.

“You’re makin’ me sound like a lil gremlin thief! It’s all those times you told me _just take my card, Matsuda_ , whenever it was your time to treat. But anyway,” she continues, successfully dodging Osamu’s flick to the forehead, “that’s your Suna, right?”

 _Wait, what_?

In a silent question, Osamu raises an eyebrow.

“You jus' mention him a lot, that’s all,” her voice a false sense of _breezy_ , as she steeples her chin on her hand and pins him with a gaze that feels all-seeing. “Nothin’ spooky, don’t worry.”

Osamu always refers vaguely, mostly for no other reason than effort or habit or something of the sorts. _A friend_ , most times; an _old teammate_ , others; but they always take it to be Suna, as if he speaks of only one. The thing is, most of the time, they’re not even _wrong._ Osamu didn’t even realise he mentioned Suna that much. It’s an unnerving discovery. 

“How long’s it been?” Matsuda asks.

"First year of high school.” A meeting at the gym doors. A pair of volleyball shoes in hand, undone at the laces. A fifteen year old Suna, new to the prefecture, kicking off the blossoms stuck to the underside of his heels. “We met at volleyball tryouts."

"No, no, not that.” Waving her hand in front of her face as if she could physically bat the answer away, she clarifies, “I mean, how long’s it been since you got together?”

It’s not exactly a line of question unheard of, for with this, Osamu is already well practiced. So he takes it in stride, and falls into the usual patterns, no beats skipped.

“We’re not.” Because that’s the truth of it. “We’re not dating.” Because when they were, his lock screen was a photo of Suna, candid, laughing hard at something far off from the camera lens. At this point, Osamu can’t remember what it was about; just recalls the warmth in his chest when Suna turned back to him, took him by the hand, and pulled him closer. “Not anymore, anyway.”

The izakaya swells with a call for another toast, and the sound of cups go clinking together, beer frothing at the rims in a dangerous wave. Unperturbed, Osamu circles his hand around his own glass to raise, and takes a swig from his drink, long since gone flat.

Matsuda gives him a long, hard look, and calls for a refill.

* * *

_Easygoing_ , they had both been called, and together, they had been no different. 

Classmates then teammates, then friends and then _more_. And then, just as easily, not _that_ anymore either.

(Together, then apart, as easy as breathing, even when it becomes suffocating.)

At graduation, they part, with armfuls of bouquets and second buttons clutched in their fists, and promise to keep in touch. No argument, no earth-rupturing fallout - just different paths to follow, and different lives to lead; and knowing that distance could strain what they had. For between them, they’ve always been two who spoke far more with actions; in words muttered in fingertips; feet falling to step at the attackline; hands always meeting halfway. They catch eyes from across classrooms, across courts; and speak always in proximity, and in lines that start to blur.

Suna joins EJP Raijin. Osamu enrolls in a university abroad. At the airport, his old teammates see him off, pulling him into rough hugs that leave his ribcage wheezing. Atsumu balls his hands into fists, still red in the face from a bout of crying; and even in this, they match, with Osamu’s eyes swollen from tears. Suna stands, never too far, fingers worrying a hole into the hem of his sweater.

At first, they try to close distance with calls, messages, and a string of photos in the group chat; of a dorm and stray cats and tourist attractions only seen on the internet. But this whittles down into a rarity until nothing is left; for first thoughts become second thoughts, become afterthoughts; until it’s stranger to break the silence than keep it. And it feels weird in a way, to be nestled in each other’s pockets so heavily, to then drift apart, just as quietly as they had become friends. 

Over four years, he sees home in snapshots of holidays when he can, and each time, he leaves with an added type of homesickness, one that saps at his bones and leaves him sleepless. (He sees Suna even less so, their schedules rarely aligning; and when they do, it’s in fleeting moments, with Osamu awkward, unsure of where to stand.)

They fall between, in the space of distance; in growing up and growing apart. In the space of silence; for silence _then_ was one thing, and silence _now_ is another. Words unneeded become words unknown, and distances between grow, in ones he doesn’t know how to bridge. 

* * *

After graduation, he returns home; a little older than before, a little taller than before, and settled in his bones in a new way.

They find each other again, six days into Osamu’s first year in grad school (into Suna’s first year at university after retiring); on a mind numbingly boring tour of the campus facilities, with a tutorial, given by an equally bored looking TA, on ‘How to Photocopy a Booklet and Not Jam the Paper Tray and Run Away’.

When their eyes meet, Osamu’s feet stutter, but Suna’s the one who sidles into the space beside him, and greets him with a smile, still as warm as he remembers, if only a little strained in the corners.

(And because they’ve never been ones to lie outright, Suna does not offer him untruths like _I didn’t know you were back in Japan,_ and Osamu does not shade _you quit volleyball?_ in a question.)

They fall between knowing and remembering, for four years could house an entire universe of changes. Osamu spends the first few months relearning and reshaping the Suna Rintarou he knows, four years outdated now, and from the ground up, he builds.

(And then, just as easily, they fall back together again.)

* * *

By the time they decide that they’ve long outstayed their welcome, Osamu’s coat feels heavy with the smell of smoke. Out on the sidewalk, they bid their goodbyes into the winter’s air, and exchange well wishes for the new year.

To Matsuda, he tells her, _message us when you get home_ , and she gives a little wave before she heads off to the nearest train station. In the opposite direction, Osamu and Takagi make their way down the street towards their neighbourhood, pulling their scarves tighter around their necks to ward off the cold.

“Miya! Wait up!”

Upon turning back, Osamu is greeted with the sight of Fujimoto fumbling with his jacket, nearly skidding across the pavement in his haste. He’s red in the face from the cold, most likely, paired with the telltale flush of alcohol. Osamu’s patient, and waits for him to collect his bearings.

“I was wondering-” Fujimoto pauses, scratching at the back of his neck. “What are you doing on Christmas Eve?”

“Oh, y’know how my brother plays volleyball?” An understatement, really, as if he’s not en route to be drafted for the Olympic Team. He’s already mentioned this fact to them multiple times, and with their circles no longer overlapping so heavily, Atsumu has absolutely no way of finding out, so Osamu does not bother to hide his pride. “His team made it to the finals in Ota. I dunno if there’s still tickets if you wanna come too?” Osamu pointedly ignores the way Takagi flinches next to him, in all levels of over exaggeration, and in an afterthought adds, “Ah… they’re probably sold out by now...”

“Then," Fujimoto blurts out, "Christmas Day?”

“I've gotta go shopping. I’m goin’ on a trip to Kamisu with a coupla old friends and there’s some stuff we still need to get.” And groceries too while they’re at it. That tends to be the case - go for one thing, come back with twenty others, the initial reason lost and forgotten in the haul.

In his mind, he makes a mental note. They’re out of sesame oil. Down to their last bottle of conditioner. And there’s no way that Suna would take up the offer of using Ginjima’s trusted 3-in-1 brand that he’s sworn by for the past two years.

This doesn’t deter Fujimoto. He ventures once more, as if grasping at straws, in his final attempt. “How about New Years?”

“Sorry.” Inwardly, Osamu winces, the words leaning heavy in his mouth with each answer morphing reasons into excuses. “I’ll still be in Kamisu then.”

Between them, Takagi returns to his status as the usual nosy spectator, and stresses, “With his _friend_ ,” his voice lilting up around the syllables.

That halts Fujimoto in his tracks.

He goes from wilted to utterly deflated in one fell swoop. With a grimace, he swallows his words, as if he’s eaten something with a bad flavour, lingering in all the wrong ways. Then sighs, quiet and a little defeated, and hands over a dejected smile. “Ah… I wasn’t sure if you and Suna-san were _actually-_ ”

Fujimoto shakes his head, as if abandoning the thought. Like coming to a realisation, and discovering a hidden meaning woven into Osamu’s words that evades even himself. A joke, perhaps, where Osamu’s still the one left in the dark. 

“I get it,” Fujimoto tells him. “Let’s forget I asked?”

* * *

(It occurs to Osamu now, what Suna means when he says that it’s _easier to let them think that_.

He remembers four months earlier - the two of them preparing for bed and Osamu had asked, “They think we're datin’?” and when Suna ignored him, “You never corrected them?”

Shaking his head, Suna had pulled the covers up past his chin, eyelids heavy with fatigue. “Too much hassle.”

Remembers then, in line for coffee - and the barista scrawling a string of numbers onto the sleeve of Suna’s coffee cup. How Osamu was waiting idly, half a gaze out of the window, while vaguely noting Suna’s movements. The way Suna had sidled in, naturally, and with a glance back to the barista, had pulled Osamu’s hand into his own.)

* * *

So at this, Osamu just offers a close mouthed smile and a nod, and bids him goodnight.

* * *

It’s the night before their trip when Matsuda calls.

As Suna lives the closest to Shinagawa Station, they’ve all come to stay at his apartment for the night before taking an early morning train to Kamisu. After an instant ramen dinner, and allowing their lives to be at the mercy of ghost leg, in deciding chores like washing dishes, taking out garbage, and the dreaded duty of _first awake tomorrow morning_ , Osamu gathers the last of his belongings to pack.

“I wanted to say sorry,” comes her voice, not even waiting for Osamu to greet her, after he picks up on the third ring.

He blinks, pausing in his quest for his gloves, a drawer emptied onto the floor. After she doesn’t continue for several moments, he kicks a pile of dirty clothes into the corner for laundry and prompts, “For…?”

“For teasing you about Suna-san.” When Osamu just responds in heavy silence, she elaborates, “An ex.”

 _Oh._ "Nah, it doesn't really bother me."

“We all kinda figured you were just… y’know.”

He has an idea. He questions it anyway, despite his better judgement. “What?”

“Um… In love with him? But secretly?” Even from here, Osamu can imagine her sheepish look. “Taka-chan’s so sure you’re gonna get together.” She sighs. “Didn't realise you already did though.”

Heading back into the kitchen, Osamu waves her off before he remembers that she can’t see him.

“It’s fine,” he reassures her, counting how many hours they have until their train, “you wouldn’t be the first. It wasn’t an ugly breakup and it’s been like what… five... nearly six years now?” Since the breakup under the blossoms, and Osamu asking- “And we’re still good friends, anyway.”

Somehow, Matsuda sounds unconvinced through the silence. She’s always been the type to wear her emotions outright; as if dunking her entire being within it, submerged and still sinking. It’s one of the things that Osamu admires about her.

“So you don’t mind?” she pushes. “That Taka-chan teases you that much? That uh… Fujimoto-kun thinks you rejected him because you’re datin’ Suna-san?”

“I really don’t care about it. Go ahead, let Takagi tell the whole neighbourhood that we’re in love”— because honestly, Takagi’s words often fall upon unlistening ears —“I’ve dealt with worse.”

( _Worse_ is the force of nine children staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes.

It’s Osamu, turning up to the volleyball club that Suna volunteers at after class one day, and hearing, “It’s Suna-sensei’s husband!” in what was probably classified as a _whisper_ in their terms.

The children huddled together, exchanging gossip as if it were the most important currency to hoard; the strongest, and most powerful; and pointed at Osamu from across the court.)

( _Worse_ is Osamu returning to Suna’s apartment and finding Suna’s little sister, Risako, squatting outside on the doorstep.

It’s her following him into the apartment, commenting, “Oh, Osamu-nii, you have your own key,” her tone casual, as if speaking of the weather, and asking all sorts of questions about what living abroad was like. He noted then, how much she had grown since he had last seen her, because four years was both a long and short time, and could shift a whole perspective of a person.

In the trailing moments, she asked, whilst rifling through the fridge and interrupting him midway through a story from his third year, “Are you going to break my brother’s heart again?”

The tone shift gave him whiplash. She managed to still look nonchalant as she did so, emerging with a pudding in each hand, though her voice slipped into downright _menacing_.

And with his words, Osamu was hesitant, gingerly testing them on his tongue. “Again?” And then, a few beats too late, “Don’t worry; we’re not even dating anymore.”

In return, Risako rolled her eyes, both familiar and unfamiliar all at once, and nudged the fridge door shut. “I know _that_.”

It was then that Osamu decided that resemblance between siblings only grew with time.)

Standing in the middle of the kitchen, Osamu shakes away the memory of it.

“ _Go ahead?_ ” he hears Matsuda say. “Sounds to me like you enjoy it, Miya-chan.”

* * *

When he returns out into the living room, phone tucked into his pocket, he finds Kosaku sprawled out on his stomach, and Ginjima perched on the edge of the sofa, the two of them yelling up a storm. Atsumu, his suitcase opened and abandoned, is on his feet, backseat gaming. He’s yelling out the most intense commentary into his makeshift microphone, a bottle of Calpis Soda, complete with sound effects of audience cheers and jeers.

On the television, Kyo slams Benimaru into the ground, KO filling the screen.

Howling, Ginjima throws his hands to his face, releasing his death grip on the controller, and bemoans a loss. Something about how _regret is always the flavour that lingers longest_ ; that it _serves him right_ , for being so foolish in thinking he could ever win without Mai. In turn, Kosaku cheers, jumping onto the couch, wearing victory on his head like a crown. And to an invisible cameraman, he blows kisses and shoots finger hearts, as Atsumu swoops in to interview him on his most recent win.

Freshly showered, Suna lounges in the doorway, his hair bleeding into the collar of his shirt, and grins when he catches Osamu’s eye from across the room.

* * *

(Another?

It’s Suna asking, three months back into his life, “Are you seeing anyone now?”

And Osamu had answered, tongue a little loose from the hour, “Nope,” with a little shake of his head and far too much honesty. “There’s only ever been you.”)

* * *

(It’s Osamu only noticing later, midway through washing the dishes, the pure weight of it.

For in different ears, there lay a different meaning; words shaped less of a fact and more of a confession; one that he hadn’t realised he had made.

“There’s only ever been you,” he had admitted, with his head tilted to the sky, eyes sliding shut; as if he had tried and failed to fall in love with someone else.)

* * *

(It’s Osamu, over a year down the line, staring up at the ceiling with Suna asleep beside him; smell of his shampoo heavy on his bedsheets, breath evened out, heartbeat in time with his own

and knowing then,

that he means that too.)

* * *

On the train, a couple of stations before their destination, Osamu wakes to the smell of coffee, and his head resting in the crook of Suna’s shoulder. His eyes, bleary; joints, creaking, folded awkwardly in too small seats; back pain, winding its way to settle at the bottom of his spine. His nose, a gentle press against Suna’s neck, just below his pulsepoint.

Suna’s sitting, stock still, staring out of the window with the world still flashing past their compartment. His body stays bent at an awkward angle, careful to not jostle Osamu from his nap.

Once he realises that Osamu is awake, Suna tears his eyes from the window, and turns to look at him. Osamu hums out a greeting, low and content, sending a rumble through his chest, and shifts so he can blink up at Suna. Limbs move, slow and languid, mind even more so, still wading through a dream.

With his face tilted this way, Suna’s hair falls into his eyes. Osamu, still drowsy, squints to adjust to the light. The intrusive thoughts float in slowly, and then, all at once, in a haze too unguarded, filter slow under the grasp of sleep. Thoughts of long lashes and fading sunspots and pressing thumbs onto the edge of cheekbones; of cradling a face in gentle palms, and pulling him in to-

“You drank coffee,” Osamu murmurs out, mouth cottoned from sleep, and crumples that train of thought into his fist. 

Quirking an eyebrow, Suna huffs out a little laugh. “And _you_ drooled on me.”

The tannoy rings out to announce the final destination, _the doors will open on the left hand side_ , and _please take care when collecting your belongings_. Osamu clambers to his feet, relishing at the pop of his bones, and stretches out the aches, as if those thoughts could be shaken off alongside them.

* * *

The sea, at the end of the street, comes to greet them; and with it, a certain wonder to be found no matter the land it meets. Into the early morning air, they yell out, the wind slapping sleep from their cheeks.

Ginjima flies off first, Kosaku barely half a step behind, and Atsumu whips around to goad Osamu into action. Like a reflex, Suna means to evade, but it’s no difficulty to recognise a battle lost before it’s even begun. Here, like then, like _always_ , Suna relents, ready and willing, to the pull of the ocean, to Osamu’s own.

Duffle bags go abandoned into the sand, and together, they sprint across the plains, digging in five pairs of footprints, their lungs burning with laughter.

After their joints grow stiff from cold, they make their way to their hotel, and before the entrance, they kick sand from shoes, and pat down backs; release it from where it’s trapped itself in the folds of winter coats. Osamu leans over to brush it from Suna’s hair, and notes the redness that blooms beneath; wonders then, if a sunburn has already begun in making a home, high across his cheekbones.

They drop off their luggage and head out to explore nearby; eating their fill in nearby restaurants (recommended to Kosaku by locals, for he has a power, somehow, to strike conversations with strangers as if reconnecting with old friends), before retreating back to the hotel, surrendering to the fatigue that comes only in travel.

With two rooms booked, each having two beds, they crowd around a ghost leg, hastily scrawled on the back of a napkin, to assign sleeping arrangements in their usual form of diplomacy. Osamu ends up rooming with Kosaku; the rest in the other, and Atsumu throws his hands into the air in victory named _a bed to himself_.

That night, the sound of traffic muted beyond the windowsill, Osamu stirs to his duvet coming away, peeled back as if his final defence.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks, trying to make out the shape in the darkness. But he already knows the owner of the footfalls, for he can tell through eyes shut, in sound and touch alone.

At this, Suna provides neither _yes_ nor _no_ ; just the shift of a body in quiet admittance, the sound of a hand against bed linen.

“Move over,” he tells him instead, even though Osamu’s long since shuffled over, a pillow pushed to the other side.

Below Osamu, the earth sinks to hold another; for now, Suna comes, finding open arms through darkness, reclaiming his warmth.

* * *

(He’s sixteen the first time. Training camp and a flurry of limbs and an open carton of juice, upended on a futon.

In the room, they all pause, as if caught with arms, elbow-deep in red, and seeping into cuffs of barely rolled-up sleeves.

It’s Suna’s.

Across the room from them, Kita-san sits unblinking, a whole earful of chiding spent wordless. Aran sighs, too weary to scold them. Suna’s silhouette looms, ever growing in the doorway.

But here, he does not rise.

Instead, he just takes one look at his futon, then at Atsumu, who avoids eye contact; lets them flit around the room, guilt worn in his posture. Then, to Osamu, who looks just the slightest more apologetic. To both of them, he shoots that very _Suna Rintarou stink eye_ , and then toes off his slippers, as he shuffles into the room to return his washbag back into his belongings.

When they call for lights out, Suna beelines to where Osamu’s halfway through pulling a sock off.

“Move over,” Suna says, kicking lightly at his legs.

At the brush of a sole against his shin, Osamu complains, “Your feet are freezin’,” but moves over regardless, offering land for Suna to take.)

* * *

There’s a rule that they still follow which was established from their time at Inarizaki: wake up order is bathroom order.

Like then and now, Kosaku’s bed had long since emptied by the time Osamu had woken; Ginjima’s too, in the neighbouring room. As always, Atsumu is awake before Osamu; a byproduct, perhaps, from childhood, which stemmed from a want to collect _competition wins_ in all shapes. Suna trails, last out of bed, again like usual, for he’s long since had any qualms in having the bathroom last.

They say old habits die hard, and this one, it seems, will withstand time.

Already dressed for the day, Osamu lounges in their room while waiting for Suna, and speaks to Matsuda on the other end of a call. He laughs as she launches into a story about _family reunions_ and _an embarrassing uncle_ and _a fifteen year old cousin in a rebellious stage_.

He flops down onto the floor, stretching out on his back, and with a tilt of his head, notices Suna’s outfit still folded on the bed and forgotten. And right on cue, Suna’s yell for Osamu comes from the bathroom, muffled behind the door.

Taking his phone off of speaker, he crosses the room to deliver his clothes. “Suna.” He knocks in a little rhythm, signalling arrival as a heads up. “I’m coming in.”

He goes to the counter, smearing off condensation with a clumsy swipe of a sweater sleeve, humming when Suna thanks him. 

“The _look_ on my grandma’s face when-" she pauses, interrupting herself half a leg into the sentence. "Is that… water?”

“Yeah,” Osamu confirms, wedging his phone between his shoulder and cheek, as he takes a cloth to wipe at the water, trying to avoid soaking Suna’s clothes. “Suna’s showering.”

“And you just… walk in.”

“Yeah?”

Over the line, Matsuda makes a choked noise.

“There’s a shower curtain,” Osamu points out in his defence. “Sometimes I need the toilet or I wanna brush my teeth and Suna takes so long in the shower so we don’t lock the door anymore.”

Through the curtain, over the heavy hammer of running water, Suna curses at him for revealing bad habits to people he hasn’t even met yet, and obliterating the chances of a good first impression.

“Anymore?” Matsuda repeats. “How often do you- Is that just a _thing_ for you?”

“I guess?" Osamu responds, clicking the bathroom door shut on the way out, "I just stay over at his a lot; he stays over at mine a lot-”

“I’ve been to your place, Miya-chan. You don’t even have a futon.” And then, because she’s always been so good at reading him and his silences — “As expected of a former basketball captain of a powerhouse,” Osamu can imagine Takagi saying— “ _Oh_.” Somehow, she has the ability to make Osamu feel the full force of her grin through sound alone. “You share the bed, don’t you? D’you guys have sides?”

Osamu groans. They _do_ , and it’s not exactly a secret, for the rest have already long since grown used to it. But with Matsuda, who doesn’t know Suna (who would no doubt get along so well with him, and together, would be _unbearable_ ) it feels incriminating somehow.

"When did'ya get so _nosy_?"

"So you do!"

(It’s a little embarrassing, really, how much he likes their habits. Sometimes Osamu wakes up, wearing a shirt stolen from Suna, stands in the middle of his bathroom with only one sock on, and stares at the two toothbrushes kept in a cup on the sinkside; and has no idea how to smother the warmth in his chest.)

Exasperated, he pulls the phone from his ear for a moment, and runs a hand over his face. “Okay, _yes_ ,” he admits into the mouthpiece, “but Matsuda-”

“You guys sound so grossly married, it’s kinda cute.”

Laughter erupts then, and she makes that placating soothing tone that she reserves for her nephew (and, at times, Takagi), and ignores him completely, when he threatens to click the call off.

* * *

Over lunch, Kosaku and Ginjima mourn the loss of an opportunity to room together. They curse the powers of _luck and chance_ for Kosaku’s stuck with a _married couple_ , and Ginjima brings up that Atsumu still talks in his sleep.

(The evidence? A trip at the end of third year and a voice recording that Ginjima still has on his phone. Atsumu had insisted on a case of mistaken identity. That it wasn’t _him_ but instead a ghost; for even ghosts must speak and hear whispers; and then proceeded to freak them all out, including himself.)

Opposite from Osamu, Suna asks through a mouthful of okonomiyaki, “Was that Matsuda-san on the phone?” He nods and steals a bite out of Suna’s bowl. “When am I gonna meet her?”

“Why? So you can bug me together?” Osamu shoves the chopsticks into his mouth and wrinkles up his nose. “Never.”

Before he can nab another piece, Suna’s face brightens into a grin, eyes flickering down to his mouth. “You’re so messy.”

“Huh?”

Leaning over their spread of dishes, Suna swipes his thumb slowly across Osamu’s bottom lip, taking care to gather the otafuku sauce, before settling back in his seat. Osamu goes back to his meal, half an ear into the tailend of Ginjima and Kosaku’s conversation, and misses the way Atsumu throws a balled napkin towards Suna, scowling.

* * *

There’s an art, Osamu decides on the walk to the nearby store a few days later, to winning in ghost leg; for luck is a skill in itself and the one, it seems, hardest to master.

Over the past few days, they wandered with a certain lightness to their steps, and allowed everything to be tinted rose. They seeked out a restaurant for their New Year’s soba, and spent a small fortune at the arcade; and each time, Osamu found himself at the bottom of the standings when it came to chance gashapon and Taiko no Tatsujin’s randomised songs.

Today, it seems, is no different.

(He hopes that tomorrow’s omikuji will be kinder to him.)

A few hours before the new year, he and Atsumu are sent on Firework Finding Duty (and dealing with the subsequent bill), while the others tune into Kohaku, messaging them with obscure commentary on the Red and White Team antics.

Between them, the shopping basket swings, in the grasp of one handle each, and while weaving through the aisles, they pluck snacks and all sorts off of the shelves, blissfully ignoring the growing bill, staggering to new heights.

When Osamu mentions, in passing, that Suna’s birthday is coming up in less than a month, Atsumu freezes in his tracks.

“He’s an ex,” Atsumu chides, cutting him off midway. “You’re not supposed to get your ex gifts, but if you do, get him a shit one.” He pauses, as if pondering all the things in the world, and all the gifts he’s deemed _unsavoury_ , and then decides, “Like socks.”

“What? Socks aren’t shit.”

Osamu stares pointedly down at Atsumu’s feet. Between the hems of his rolled up pants and his sneakers, a pair bought two Christmases ago peek out in the sliver. Reindeer, with red pom poms for their noses. A now horrific looking pair of googly eyes. The print is on its way to fading, washed out from multiple washes.

(To be fair, Suna’s always complaining about the cold as if his blood runs that way, that it’s not truly such a bad idea.)

“And besides,” Osamu picks up again, voice tilting into the beginnings of petulance, “I give great gifts.”

“You gave Omi-kun a _toothbrush_.”

“An electric one,” Osamu counters easily. “Good for personal hygiene.” He tries to recall the details stamped onto the back of the box, read as he and Suna stood in the middle of the department store. They were on the hunt for joint gifts under the excuse of _university student budgets_ , and the threat of wallets running dry. “And it lights up when you press too hard.”

According to Suna, Sakusa had bought a special case for it, packed full with the wonders of _UV sanitation_ , and never failed to bring it with him to all of his away games. As if admitting defeat, Atsumu sighs, heavy and earth weary, but does not deny it.

So again, he repeats, “You don’t buy gifts for an ex,” in his only true defence, as if Osamu hasn’t heard it in multitudes before. “But you wanna know what else you don’t do?”

“Not really.”

“You don’t live together-”

“We don’t-”

“ _Basically_ live together,” Atsumu amends, peeking out of the corner of his eye as if attempting to catch Osamu off guard, listing things off with the fingers on his free hand, “make dinner together, spend every single damn second together-”

“ _Every_ second? Look around, he’s not even here right now-”

“Sleep in the same bed, act like an old married couple,” Atsumu skates on by, ignoring Osamu completely, “and don’t even get me started on _kissin’_ him.”

It’s not a tactic unfamiliar to Osamu.

They’d bicker with words they didn’t mean, pumped full of lumps and bumps to trick into a confession, one too sudden to snatch back. It’s usually Atsumu who falls into these traps though, catches his ankle in a pitfall and goes tumbling down, no end in sight.

Here, in the middle of the noodle aisle, Osamu grimaces, face warped into all shades of offence. Atsumu has absolutely _no faith_ in him. It stings a little more than it should.

“I haven’t kissed him.” Because despite the universe and their supposed general consensus, there are some lines between them that haven’t blurred.

“Sure, sure.” It’s frustrating how Atsumu manages to keep his tone tangled tightly with disbelief, unfailing in his attempts to pick apart Osamu’s patience until it collapses in on itself. “Jus’ throwin’ it out there. Coverin’ all my bases. Bein’ kind and givin’ you some wise advice about dealin’ with exes, y’know.”

He shrugs then, as if he’s fooling anyone with this false shade of nonchalance.

Osamu frowns. There are so many things wrong with that statement. First of all, “Okay, since when were you some expert?” And then, “He’s not _an ex_. He’s still just Suna.” One more, “and besides, he’s been _‘an ex’_ for years. Why’s it a problem now?”

“Because! You were just friends before, you were over him. But _now_ , you-” Atsumu takes a deep breath in, and on the exhale, pins him with a look. “Samu,” he says, serious now, “who’re you kiddin’? You know why.”

At this, Osamu avoids his look, staring ahead down the aisle towards a packet of shrimp-flavoured crackers, as if all the wonders in the world were held within those seventy-five grams.

(Of course he knows; _of course he knows_. That he’s still hung up on his first love; the same person who he comes home to in the evenings; who presses close when they fall asleep. That he’s _still_ in love with him after all these years, and showing no signs of stopping.

It’s the worst kept secret on this side of the universe.)

So, past the clench of his jaw, he finds his words and grits out, “Is it so bad?” Swallowing thickly, he repeats, “Is it so bad? That I wanna stay like this?”

From the corner of his eye, Osamu can see the way Atsumu pauses; how he wrestles with his thoughts. A younger Atsumu wouldn’t have bothered to hold back; would’ve pressed his finger into skin, and dug in deep to the bone of it all; but would promise to fix the wound before it festers.

This one bites his lip, and lets the subject drop. He turns, abrupt in this as he is with everything else, and swerves down an aisle.

“Ah there! Fireworks.”

Osamu swears about _whiplash_ , and _‘what the fuck, Tsumu’'_ , his shoulder twinging from the angle.

“Found ‘em first! You’re payin’.”

* * *

(In all honesty, Osamu’s not sure if it deserves the title as dramatic as _The Break Up_.

On the edge of graduation, two boys stood underneath a blue sky, cloudless, and a rainfall of petals, and learnt then, the art of letting go.

Separation was wanting so many things, but not knowing how to hold them all. It was learning then, when to latch on and when to yield; to the winds, and the earth that moulds to their footsteps in paths they will follow.

For Suna, it lay in volleyball; a scout handing over a business card, stamped with EJP Raijin’s emblem, to be accepted in numb fingers. For Osamu, it was a university abroad. A new start in all things; to shake off the remnants of high school volleyball. A new place, a new city, with new sights to see, new horizons to meet.

And so there, under the fall of spring, Osamu brushed the petals from Suna’s hair, and stared at him, long and steady, as if trying to memorise his face; keep all the details tucked away in the back of his mind. Hands came out to pull another pair in, as if mapping out the valleys beneath for one last time.

It seemed a little foolish to give it to him then, a confession alongside an ending, but Osamu did so anyway, and told him, “You don’t have to say anythin’ back. I jus’ want you to know.” Because Osamu knew then, and knows _now_ ; that there’d be no one else who he’d want to give it to. “This is only if you want it.”

“I do,” Suna breathed out, stepping closer, “I want it.”

Then, into Suna’s outstretched palm, he placed his second button, a heart squashed into a fistful, and traced over the lines of his palms and all the little bumps, the calluses, the little scar, from when he fell off of his bike when he was five. And then, he curled Suna’s fingers with his own, and to the back of his knuckles, pressed a soft kiss.

He did not say _I love you_ , for declarations like those felt far too heavy, far too permanent, too _real._ Instead, he took a deep breath in, held Suna’s fist against his chest, and wondered if Suna could hear it; the drumming of his heart against his sternum.

And he told him, “I’m not askin’ for anythin’,” through the ringing in his ears, “I don’t want you to do anythin’.”

“You can, though,” Suna had told him, “You can always ask.”

And he wanted to, really. To ask, selfishly. Pull Suna into his arms with a promise he knew that they couldn’t keep. But then, because Suna was biting his lip hard enough to bleed, because he could see the way Suna’s knuckles whitened from the grip-

“Can I tell everyone that EJP Raijin’s middle blocker used to be in love with me?” he settled on, through the lump forming in his throat, in a feeble attempt to make him laugh.

Suna had knocked him lightly on the forehead with his own, let their noses press together a little clumsily; sent a huff of a laugh against his face.

“Sure,” he agreed, though it came out with a wobble, and pretended that both their eyes weren't rimmed with red, “make sure you promote me to international scouts over there.”)

* * *

Hands filled with two bags each, Osamu and Atsumu make the journey back, the distance suddenly feeling as though it’s grown in miles under added weight. They speak nothing more of _exes_ and _boundaries_ and the dangerous toeing of _too close to home_.

At the hotel entrance, Atsumu shoves a hand out, stopping Osamu in his tracks with a rough tug on the back of his hoodie. And with the force, the plastic bag looped around his wrist nearly takes Osamu out, ricocheting off of his back.

“Oi, Tsumu!” Osamu yelps out. “What gives-”

“Jus’ don't do anythin' stupid, okay?”

Osamu blinks.

From the open window, Ginjima yells down at them. “Hurry up!” he shouts, even when Kosaku’s making frantic shushing noises, in fears of the neighbours kicking up a fuss. “I’m hungry.”

Over his shoulder, Atsumu yells back, “We’re comin’!” before swivelling around on his heels and turning tail.

* * *

On the cusp of a new year, in the twenty-eight minutes leading up to midnight, the beachside finds the five of them, stomachs full from a toshikoshi soba dinner.

“Who goes to the beach in winter?” Suna grumbles, rubbing his hands up and down his arms, in vain attempts to warm up.

“Quit complainin’,” Ginjima hisses, jumping around on the balls of his feet, and aiming a kick at Suna’s leg. “You were excited for it before!”

“That was before I realised it was gonna be so fucking cold.”

When it lands, Suna leaps away, his body creaking from the cold, too slow to miss it, and pauses to shove two middle fingers up at him. He turns to chase him back, in returning favours, kicking up sand in their wake.

(And at this, Osamu can’t help but stare. At the cut of his cheeks, from where the light fails to pool, the quirk of his lips; in laughter so unguarded, at the sight of Ginjima tumbling down into the sand.)

They stand, fumbling in the dark, bathed in the glow from the light sources from the streetlamps nearby, the sound of the wind punctuated by the rustle of their plastic bag upended. Into a heap, they land; the sparklers, the fireworks; a can of beer each, rolling through sand, sure to burst upon opening. 

Squatting down, Kosaku rips open the packets, while Ginjima, knees already caked at the hands of the beach, distributes their drinks. Together, they toast; to injury-free seasons and easy exam questions and a mountain of wishes both honest and ridiculous. Alongside the clock on Ginjima’s phone, they count down and enter into the new year with the peal of bells from the nearby temple filling the air. And around them, the sparks go up in a shower of fireflies to meet the stars.

* * *

“Hey, Osamu,” Suna breathes out, his breath misting in the air between. “Don’t forget to make a wish.”

* * *

Out on the beach, Osamu watches ahead; at the ebb and flow of the waves; how the sea kisses the edge of the shore and melts away to dust. He’s got his shoes kicked off in the sand somewhere; despite all warnings of _frostbite_ , and a cold, sure to be had from stupidity; to feel the sand beneath him, as he draws mindless circles into the plains below.

“Osamu,” Suna calls out from behind him, coming to meet him at the coastside, “It’s freezing out here.”

With the wind in his hair, Osamu turns, bundled in his coat and scarf, and finds Suna crossing the distance between.

It’s twenty minutes before sunrise, the first of the year, and while the others are still asleep in their hotel rooms, squeezing in a few more hours of rest, Osamu had awoken earlier, with Suna’s arm draped over his waist, and a heavier weight in his chest.

(And a phantom trail of lips, leaving a burning mark at the spot just beneath his ear.)

They had always been told that they were similar; in habits and temperament, both _easy going_ and _casual_ , and it seems that now is no different as they give way to the cold. Suna’s only wearing a scarf and a familiar looking hoodie; and it takes a few moments for Osamu to place it. It’s one he had thought he had lost _years_ ago, some time before their final Haruko.

(Suna had kept it, all this time?)

Struggling to make his way down to the shore, Suna comes to join him, and on his way, collects Osamu’s discarded sneakers. When Suna reaches him, he bends down to deposit Osamu’s shoes onto the ground; and then stretches out his arms, reaching always; as if travelling the earth, hands first. He pulls Osamu closer by the material of his coat, and then slips his hands into Osamu’s pockets alongside his own.

He’s so clingy when he’s sleepy - a secret that Suna’s threatened him to guard. But the pout that comes with it, paired with his hair, tousled with sleep, is a little disarming, and softens the threat entirely.

“Can you even feel your feet?” Suna asks.

Casting his gaze down below, Suna grimaces, and then coughs out a surprised laugh when Osamu wriggles his toes in response.

“It feels nice. I haven’t been to the beach in ages.”

“Then,” Suna suggests, “we should go again this year. In summer,” he adds, “when it’s not so fucking cold.”

He ushers Osamu into sliding back into his shoes, ignoring all quips of _stuck sand_ and _wet socks_ ; and around them, the wind picks up, whipping their hair into their faces. Suna winces at the bite.

Osamu frees his hands from his pockets and cups Suna’s face, his skin, icy cold, in his palms. "Do you have bad circulation or something? You’re always freezing.”

Suna tilts his head slightly, as if pondering a real answer, and leans into his touch. “It’s your fault I’m out here. My futon was cold without you.”

“Is that all I’m good for? A personal heater?”

Hum low in his throat, Suna nods, still sleep soft and drowsy, hair sticking up all over the place. “Yeah. My personal heater.” And pulling his hands out from Osamu’s pockets, Suna latches onto the zipper of Osamu’s coat, and tugs it down.

Ready and willing, limbs moving before he registers, Osamu holds it open for Suna to step forward into his personal space. Suna sighs, content and warm and sleepy around the edges. And like breathing, they slot into the space between, shuffling around to get comfortable, arms circling around a waist. Osamu closes the padded coat tight around them, warding off the wind, and the way it nips at their heels.

They fall back into their easy quiet, huddled in a shared coat, listening to the roll of the waves, before Suna mumbles, “I’m cold,” turning his face into Osamu’s shoulder. His words come out stifled against his sweater. His breath tickles Osamu’s neck. He wriggles his fingers beneath Osamu’s shirt to splay his hands against his lower back.

With a hiss, Osamu flinches away from the cold, harsh against his skin, and Suna chuckles, latching on tighter, but rubs circles with his thumbs in a silent apology. Suna readjusts in his grasp so they’re facing, noses nearly bumping, his hair skating along Osamu’s face.

It’s cute, Osamu can’t help but think, the way Suna’s nose always turns pink. He’s always been the type to be cold. Cold hands pressed to Osamu’s spine; cold feet, pressed against his calves, stealing his warmth. Cold nose, now, knocking against his own. And this close, Osamu can see everything, can trace tiny constellations across his cheekbones, can see the phantom kiss of a summer spent under the sun. He can feel the way Suna’s breath swells in his lungs, the way his heartbeat thunders against his own. He smells like their fabric softener, shared now, after Suna had mentioned, offhandedly, that he’s always liked the way Osamu’s clothes smelt, fresh from the washing machine.

“Hey, Osamu,” Suna whispers, his breath warm and skating past Osamu’s lips.

Osamu swallows. “Yeah?”

This close, Osamu can feel himself forget himself; forget his place. It’s too easy; to fall between, to yield; anchor himself to Suna for this lifetime and more. Because looking at him like this, pushing his hair from his face, feeling his skin under his hands, the way goosebumps rise in their wake. Because looking at him like this, mapping out all of his freckles; that little scar, from a bumped brow against a volleyball winch when he was nine-

Because this close, if Osamu just tilts his head slightly-

“Osamu.”

This close, he could-

“Osamu. D’you wanna know what I wished for?”

This close-

“Remind me again,” comes Atsumu’s voice, cutting through like thunder, far too loud for the likes of an early morning. “Why are we doing this? I’m so fuckin’ tired.”

“Think of it as continuin’ tradition,” Kosaku replies, bright-eyed despite the early hour. “Like that time in third year.”

“Yeah and didn’t we say ‘let’s never do this again’?”

Bringing up the rear, Ginjima cups a hand around his mouth, yelling out ahead. “Oi Suna! D’you wanna die from the cold?!” In his other hand, Suna’s coat rises up, the wind whipping it around like a flag.

As if his limbs were submerged in water, and now breaking the surface, Osamu stumbles backwards, his knees a little weak. He turns to greet them, his pulse running a marathon; and ignores the gaze landing heavy on his back.

* * *

Overhead, the first sunrise of the year arrives, bathing the sand in a warm glow.

And with one look at Suna, Osamu makes his first wish of the year.

* * *

The days pass with them falling back into old habits. 

After the crowds have thinned, they pray for new year’s blessings at the nearby shrine and receive their omikuji in careful grasps. Osamu lingers, but never too long, never too close; for he’ll draw away before guilt gnaws at his insides, and threatens to burn a hole through his stomach.

For the most part, Suna acts unbothered, feathers completely unruffled. This, in itself, is not unusual, because Suna has always been the type to stare danger directly in the eye, and have danger be the one to cower. But sometimes, Osamu catches him stealing glances, and it leaves him second guessing every movement, every time their eyes linger, for just a little longer. It reaches the point where Osamu wonders if he’s imagining this distance - not quite newfound, but one they’re returning to - one that he wishes were not as familiar as it is.

Suna returns to his own room with no offered reasons, fake or otherwise; just shrugs one shoulder as if nothing but an afterthought. In turn, Osamu pretends he does not see the way Ginjima and Kosaku exchange glances, a whole world of words in their gazes.

(It’s harder though, to pretend, when over breakfast, Ginjima complains about Suna fidgeting all night, and Kosaku aims a kick for him under the table and catches Osamu instead.)

By night, Osamu lies in a bed that suddenly feels far too big, far too empty, and presses a forearm against shut eyes.

(In darkness, he can be more honest. In darkness, it is far easier to admit.

It is not a new discovery - the fact that he’s in love with Suna. For this realisation did not come with roaring fanfare. No lightning, no thunder; no shift of the earth beneath two feet, and a storm that threatened to unhinge a sky. In its place, just that gentle blur that comes with steady rainfall, like waking from a dream had with eyes open. Like bones, settling into their places.

And he was happy with where they fell now. This space of ease, and all words that they didn’t need to say; for their friendship is just shy of a decade long now, and Osamu doesn’t want to destroy something that they’ve managed to rebuild after four years of stilted silence, and distance they were unsure how to bridge. But there are lines they blur and Osamu has now overstepped; and he accepts now, that it’s been long overdue, for this rupture can no longer be ignored.

Keeping Suna _this_ close, when he doesn’t feel the same way, feels too selfish now. Not when Suna still reaches out for his hand; not when Suna still pulls him in closer. Not when Osamu feels the way he does and Suna doesn’t even _know_.

Is this want? Or is this greed? To already have so much of him, but long for more? To hold on to something he’s already let go of?

Because Suna was in love with him once; and Osamu isn’t foolish enough to hold onto the chance that he’ll fall in love with him again.)

* * *

“What am I doing?” he mutters to himself, careful to keep quiet so Kosaku isn’t shaken from his dream. “What am I doing?”

Sleep taunts him, spinning on its heels at the edges of night, and leaves him restless until sunrise.

* * *

(In his dreams, he finds a string of wants all fastened together too loosely to hold.

Osamu stands in the middle of a kitchen, with mismatched crockery from two different households, and wearing a borrowed shirt, stamped with SUNA across his shoulders, 7 across his back.

From cook to warm, the rice cooker switches, and Suna comes in like clockwork. He slinks across the room from their bed, still bundled in a duvet, and slides into the space beside Osamu. The two of them share a meal at the dining room table, their knees knocking, fingers nearly meeting in the middle.

And Suna smiles, while sunlight pours through the window; and Osamu reaches over with a bobby pin fished out from his pockets, to pin back a relentless fringe.

For these are their tiny miracles in back of hand brushes, and the warmth that burns bright in his chest.)

* * *

Dreams like these often go lost and into the morning they go.

But Osamu wakes with the memory replaced with guilt, and a settled fog clearing, and a hollowness in his chest.

* * *

“Alright,” Atsumu says, when he slides open the door of their hotel room balcony, “what did’ya do?”

Atsumu corners him three days later, on a night spent spread out on their stomachs, playing stupid games and reminiscing _old times_ , for that taste of nostalgia always seems to strengthen under the turn of a new beginning.

Osamu had ducked out a little while ago; his head too full and heavy, and guilt threading its way into his throat; and lounged with his coat draped on his shoulders, arms perched against the railing, watching the lights sprout up from the city’s darkness.

(And holding the memory of Suna _that_ close, _too_ close, in his mind.)

“Samu?”

With the click of the door, the world behind blurs into a muffle, and Kosaku’s laughter mutes, draping the balcony back in a stilted lull. Atsumu settles in the space beside him, and pushes a canned coffee into his hand, and stares out ahead, as if he already knows.

 _Creepy telepathy,_ they had called it, _that can only be built between twins._

In all honesty, Osamu doesn’t buy into that; this idea of trust and faith and an unwavering belief in the other. There are just facts; concrete and solid; that between them, _borrowed_ means _stolen_ ; that on the same court, the ball would come to him.

(That Atsumu will always have his back no matter what.)

But sometimes, Osamu wonders how Atsumu always knows without asking. Because even though they’d grown up knowing everything; what the silences meant, and what they didn’t; what they struggled to put into words, it’s still unnerving how Atsumu can always catch him, half a lie forming on his tongue.

 _Telepathy_ , they had called it, and at some points, Osamu feels inclined to agree.

Osamu rolls the can between his two palms and focuses on the feel of metal beneath his touch. “Who said I did anythin’?”

“Shut up.” Atsumu doesn’t even pretend to consider entertaining the thought. “You’ve always sucked at lyin’.”

In a way, Atsumu’s right. For Osamu often just withheld secrets with no elaborate lies, just kept them close to his chest. _Half truths_ , they considered them, for lies were crafted from effort that Osamu never wanted to expend, and steady silence could frustrate others into loosened grips.

“Samu.”

“Tsumu.”

“Spit it out.” _What’s wrong?_ is what Osamu hears. “You’ve been actin’ all shifty since new year.”

Beneath them, the world stings in artificial lighting from the twenty-four hour convenience stores; and from here, Osamu can pinpoint the karaoke place they went to last night. He cracks open the can to avoid answering, and allows the sounds of the ocean filter through the air between them. He sighs, and says, “Nothin’,” and then hisses when Atsumu digs his knuckles into his side.

“What’s the deal with you two?”

“Huh?”

“You and Suna.” Atsumu rolls his eyes when Osamu’s mouth falls open into a gape. “Don’t look at me like that. You guys aren’t hard to figure out, y’know.” He taps his finger against the side of his drink and asks, “Did you get into a fight?”

“No, ‘course not.”

“Then what? Did you kiss him or somethin’?”

Osamu's mouth goes dry.

The delay is apparently answer enough. It used to be a reflex, the easy denial, the offhanded replies, but here it is now - a pain that has already taken root and is beginning to infect into something uncontrollable.

Atsumu, no bones thrown, snatches at the breadth of a second lapse and digs his claws in. “Samu?!” He reels back to look at him. “You did?”

“I never said that-”

“You didn’t needta!” He waves his hand around, his can tipping dangerously. “Samu, I was only fuckin’ around.”

The truth now, seems even more ridiculous. _Nearly_ , as if it were a goal in sight. _No,_ and then, with shameful admittance, _but I wanted to_.

(But Osamu says none of this.)

Instead, he snaps, “I said I didn’t, Tsumu,” his words falling sharp.

They may be older now, outgrown most of their grudges as scabby-kneed five year olds, but it’s still a blow to his pride to admit Atsumu was _right_. Even though he warned him, even though Osamu _knew_ , deep down, _knew_ , if he were honest with himself, that pretending could only last for so long.

(He stares out ahead, eyes unseeing, and remembers-

That day at the beachside. Before sunrise. The sand, the waves, the wind, and Suna too close, his arms too heavy around his waist; and understanding then, that he’s never going to get over him if they keep going like this.)

“Nothin’ happened.”

For that’s how it’s always been between them. This space between; of friends and something else; _more_ but _less._ Of _nearly_ but _not quite_. Of holding him close but not knowing how to ask him to stay.

(If he even can.)

Slumping back against the railing, Atsumu takes care in forming his next sentence, like tasting each word in his mouth.

“Y’know…” he starts off, “I never got to ask before… about what happened after Suna called you.” He elaborates when Osamu doesn’t respond immediately, though they both know what Atsumu’s referring to. “That time you couldn’t come home for new year.”

Shrugging out the tension that’s creeped into his shoulders, Osamu answers, “He got drunk, said some shit, you know how it is. People say all kinds of garbage when they’re drunk.” He reins back the temptation to say _‘like you'_ , for Atsumu’s being gracious with his tact right now, even though Osamu knows he’s undeserving, and he isn’t foolish enough to provoke Atsumu into defence. 

Atsumu shoots him a flat look. “You never talked about it, did’ya?” At this, Osamu holds his silence. Just takes another gulp from his coffee, wincing after it burns his tongue. “Is that a thing for you guys? Doin’ shit and just not talkin’ about it? Pretendin’ like it never happened?”

“He doesn’t even remember, Tsumu.” Osamu sighs. He’s never talked about this before. Another thing, he curses, sidestepped and ignored. “I was gonna bring it up but the next mornin’, he just talked about his hangover and how he’s never gonna drink again.”

Under his breath, Atsumu curses, and then sets down his drink to run both hands over his face. “You really believe that?”

(Things like this go ignored but never forgotten, skirting around elephants that swell to the size of rooms.)

In the moment, Osamu drapes his arms over the balcony railing, and remembers.

* * *

(A voicemail, two years after graduation.

A voicemail, stamped three minutes into the new year.

A voicemail, with Suna’s voice on the other end.)

* * *

(“I want,” Suna had said, words spinning on their heels, “I want,” repeated over, and over, and over again, until it didn’t sound like a word anymore. “ _Osamu_ ,” he had choked out, barely audible as his voice fell to a whisper-

“I want you to miss me,” as if uttering a secret that could flatten kingdoms, “like I miss you.”)

* * *

(The morning after, Osamu had braced himself before dialing, ready to forgo their usual ankle dipping, and dive in headfirst, but the rest of the call had unfolded into a grocery list, and Osamu instructing Suna on the self proclaimed Ultimate Ochazuke Recipe, that should always be had after a night drinking.

“Thanks, Osamu,” Suna had said before hanging up, “I can always count on you.”)

* * *

Out on the balcony, Osamu takes one final swig of his drink, as if knocking back hard liquor, and crushes the can in his grip, the crunch, a shout, before slamming it back down. And it comes then, as he steels his resolve, like smoke clearing; his vision, unclouded.

“I’m gonna tell him.” Because even though Suna does not love him back, he deserves to know. “I’m gonna tell him.” Because Osamu owes him that much. “I’m gonna tell him.”

Beside him, Atsumu follows suit, and they do not bother to muffle snorts when a little coffee dribbles out onto Atsumu’s knuckles.

“If you need me to, I can kick his ass,” Atsumu promises, “just say the word.”

Osamu scoffs but can’t help the grin that splits through. “Yeah, right.” And shoves Atsumu in the shoulder with his own.

* * *

On their final morning in Kamisu, Osamu searches for another through sunrise; and finds him by the shore. Against the blues and yellows of sky and sea and sand and sun, Suna stands amongst the wind and waves; as if he’s waiting to be found.

(Because he’ll be there, if he wants to look for him.)

“Suna,” Osamu calls out, his name thrown into the air. “Suna!”

Out on the sand, Suna startles, but the tension melts away as quickly as it had arrived. “Osamu,” he says, and Osamu chides himself, for in his ears, it sounds like comfort.

Osamu’s feet lead first, always rushing to join him. It’s only when he’s halfway down the plain that he takes notice; bare ankles, bare toes; pants, cuffed and sea damp; and despite the early hour, and how Suna usually looks bleary eyed; he’s wide awake, no trace of sleep lingering on his eyelashes.

(Instead, the cling of a different kind of fatigue, in a worry that sits on heavy shoulders.)

“What’re doin’?”

At this, Suna visibly pauses, as if searching for a truth.

For a few moments, they hold still in the air, the gentle ebb and flow of the waves their only accompaniment, before Suna gives way to a shrug. “Y’know what, I actually don’t know,” he admits, with a bit of a goofy grin. “I can’t feel my toes.”

(And here, Osamu feels it; that familiar warmth in his chest that blooms to sizes uncontrollable; that bleeds through any veil.)

With a shift of weight between two feet, Suna casts his sights back out to sea, before turning back to hand over the end of a thought. “Wanted to see what you were doing last time, I guess?”

So Osamu kicks his shoes off flying, and they land somewhere beyond; beneath his heels, the sand greets him once more.

Through sand and sea and the quiet of morning, they sprint and laugh until their lungs run hot with winter’s chill; and chase discarded shoes, two halves of different pairs, before they get caught in a turn of current, dragged away to meet the ocean. Below, their soles carve footprints into this earth’s face, which the waves take and fade and blur. Above, the clouds hold silent, blanket them in a muffle of two whose eyes can only see the other, for on this side of the universe, theirs to hold in their palms, there are no more.

With sand in their hair and sea in the webbing of their fingers, their toes, they relax into the arms of the morning, and sprawl on their backs to stare up at the sky ahead; and await past the beginnings of a new dawn.

Here, they lie; and Osamu takes care in keeping measure; granting no chances of stumbling across back-of-hand brushes.

Here, they lie, and their silence does not fall to ease. Like a knot wound far too tightly, a string with a weight too heavy, on the verge of splitting.

Osamu wonders then, if Suna can feel it too; his heartbeat thrumming in his ears, the storm that lingers on the edges. Wonders then, if Suna will pull on this thread, and help Osamu unravel it.

( _Easygoing_ , Kosaku had called them once, or twice; or maybe even a whole lifetime of occasions between. _Easygoing_ , in the way their personalities would meld together in early friendship. _Easygoing_ , in the way old classmates would tease and Suna, unbothered, would barely bat an eyelid; for there'd be no storm brewing in his stomach, no butterflies to smother under thunder.

 _Easygoing_ , they were - in the way they’d reach out for the other, certain that their hands would meet.)

So here, Osamu gathers himself, and goes for _easygoing._ Curls his fist. Releases it. Then-

“Hey, Suna?” Osamu ventures, his words pitched low; stilted now, with entering waters untravelled. "You okay? Why’re you up so early?"

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

From the corner of his eye, he can see Suna turn his head to look at him. Searching, almost, as if trying to discover the end of this conversation before they begin.

"How come?"

He could sidestep, like usual. Fall into usual patterns. Of turning blind eyes to the way they fall. The way they fall into this space of not friends but _more_ ; not together but _less_. And in step with him, Suna will skirt, will take this as his cue to rearrange his facial expressions into ones they’re used to. Teasing, and joking; and words they never mean.

“I was just,” Osamu replies, “thinking.”

On another day, they’d skip through without hesitating. Shatter the moment before it’s given the chance to build. Because _thinking_ is always followed by _don’t hurt yourself_ ; as if they come in pairs, unable to part. But today, they hold themselves cautiously; turn over sentences too many times over. As if stepping on cracked ice, unsure of when it'll split and send them crashing.

Suna offers his response in silence, in offering Osamu the space to find his own.

So he does.

“Suna, I need to tell you somethin’.”

“Tell me. You can always tell me anything.”

( _You can always ask_ , he had said back then; but this isn’t something that he wants from Suna. He is not that selfish.)

"I just need you to know. You don't need to give me an answer. But I need you to know.”

Lying down, he feels too open. Lying down, he feels like he’ll reveal too much. For lying down here, is almost no different from them before sleeping, before waking; in a night spent speaking and drawing constellations into their off white ceiling. With the sky above and tops of buildings piercing, crowding into his line of vision, Osamu feels too small, too defenseless; especially when he can see Suna looking at him like that; searching, so effortlessly pulling apart his expressions.

So Osamu pushes himself to sit upright with crossed legs, and plants the juts of his ankles in the earth. The sand will ground him, anchor him, even when he knows that Suna’s pull will always be far stronger. And with a deep inhale, Osamu takes his time; lets the breath rattle through his ribcage and gathers his courage to hold behind his sternum.

“Do you remember,” Osamu asks, drawing lines in the ground with a blunt nail, his fingertips numb and pruning, “when you asked me if I was seeing anyone?” And then, a little softer, “What I said?”

The waves roll in, a stronger crash against the shore. With eyes and hands, he traces the circle of birds that flit across clouds.

“Yeah.” A beat, then two. “I remember.”

He thinks of Suna, lounging on the couch, asking him, with a nosy confidence that only came in late nights; Suna, and that voicemail, and the way he hiccupped around his name. He thinks of Suna, and all the things they’ve left unsaid.

 _(No_ , he had said, with a bone deep ache that he knows he’ll never be rid of. _No_ , he had said, as if he's ever tried.

 _No_ , he had said, _there’s only ever been you._ )

“I meant it. Still do.” He swallows, thick and viscous, and lets honesty drive him forward. “In every way.”

The earth does not fall away beneath his feet; nor does the sky come crashing down. The admittance, here, is freeing.

Between them, they depend on bridges built through hands and feet and fingers linking under the cover of darkness. Between them, they speak in all the silences between. Without looking, he cannot be guided by the furrow of Suna’s eyebrows, the stiffness of his jaw; nor the shift of a body, louder than any words.

“Osamu.”

So he keeps going, bounds ahead, all veils to hide, torn away. “You don’t need to do anything or say anything,” he repeats, like his lips know of no other shapes to form. “I just need you to know.”

He smacks both hands to his knees, and lets the sound echo through the air in his own personal thunderclap. The air jumps; the moment ends. The birds freeze in pressing claw prints at the shore and startle into flight.

Osamu tilts his chin up and grins though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He keeps his focus on the curl of relief that comes with honesty; and gets to his feet, to prepare for his own take off.

(“Can I tell everyone that EJP Raijin’s middle blocker used to be in love with me?” he had said, through the lump forming in his throat, that day under the fall of cherry blossoms.)

And he says it again, now, a little foolishly; because the silence is far too loud; and courage saps away with every step forward. A joke, to skip over the awkward air that lingers. So from the base of his stomach, he gathers a laugh; lets it dance on his ribs and releases it out. And it's freeing almost, the relief that floods in and he remembers to bask in it. For after this, he will seek out Atsumu and greet the rejection that will settle, the bruise that will rise in blues and purples, tender to the touch.

( _Easygoing_ _,_ Kosaku had called them; and Osamu is determined to fall back into place.)

He clears his throat.

“I mean, it’s pretty cool,” he gets out, painting his voice light, _casual_ ; as if no confessions were made, “that EJP Raijin’s old middle blocker used to be in love with me.”

(And back then, Suna had knocked him lightly on the forehead with his own, let their noses press together a little clumsily; sent a huff of a laugh against his face.

“Sure,” he had said, though it came out with a wobble, and pretended that both their eyes weren't rimmed with red, “make sure you promote me to international scouts over there.”)

This time, this time-

Osamu feels Suna wrap his fingers around his wrist, pulling him to face him, as if trying to anchor him to this moment.

“No,” Suna says, a little breathless, a little urgent. “ _No_ ,” Suna says, eyes a little frantic, as if searching for Osamu through darkness, his palms rising to his cheeks.

Against his face, Osamu can feel his calluses, hardened from years of volleyball; can feel the way Suna holds his face in his hands; the way he cradles so gently, his thumbs skimming featherlight against cheekbones.

(And perhaps, if Osamu is quiet enough, he would be able to hear the way Suna’s pulse is raging beneath his skin.)

His heart hammers in his throat. “Suna-”

(How easily he could. Lean into the touch. How easily he could. Turn his face in his hands. How easily he could. Press a kiss, soft and heavy and _wanting_ , to his open palm.)

“Osamu,” Suna chokes out, pressing their foreheads together.

“Osamu,” he says, as if those three syllables were safer and warmer and far more loved in his mouth than anywhere else.

“ _Osamu_ ,” he says, as if he knows nothing less, and wants nothing more.

“No. Not _used to_ , you idiot. I never stopped.”

* * *

It’s Suna who closes the gap, with hands coming to reach, always, _always_ , to pull him back into his orbit.

(And Osamu would gladly fall, knee deep and still sinking, with their hands entertwined.)

**Author's Note:**

> \- the tournament is the emperor's and empresses’ cup all japan volleyball championship and the finals have been at ota ward gymnasium multiple times. it was cancelled for the 2019 season but finals are usually around christmas (eve) so... please... pretend... for the sake of this fic's inarizaki 2nd years being in tokyo and osamu rejecting a dude's attempt at a ~christmas date~
> 
> \- suna going to university after four years pro stemmed from a frdt interview (?) saying how it was difficult to place post time skip suna bc frdt could him go pro but also could see him quit vball
> 
> \- ghost leg is that ladder lottery thing to randomly assign two things together (i didnt know what the name was but according to google its that???)
> 
> \- originally bass boosted bedsharing but then things Outside Of The Bed happened so now i guess its just bedsharing w the bass turned up just a little  
> \- i aimed to write this w a slightly diff tone to what im used to (w concrete/more lighthearted events) and it was......Difficult.... but hopefully it turned out ok! i am...... genuinely so nervous to post this...........  
> \- thank you to ji for the Cheering (even if 90% of it was Laughing), to jq for picking out a summary line despite knowing pretty much Nothing about hq and for helping me figure out what exactly fluff was, and to lauren for answering all of my silly snos qs, and for reading snippets i sent over w the qs 'is this fluff is this lighthearted is this platonic pls say yes'
> 
> thank you for making it to the end, and thank you v much for reading!! :) // [writing (sorta?) twt](https://twitter.com/centreskies/)


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